Where There's Smoke
by NinjaSquirls
Summary: If the element of fire belongs to Roy Mustang, smoke belongs to him. But smoke and fire are just part of the same thing, aren't they? Roy doesn't know anymore. Yaoi, RoyHavoc.
1. The Man of Smoke and the Man of Fire

**A/N:** Oddly enough, this story started out as a title. It's kind of odd, really, because I don't buy RoyHavoc at all (It's not bad, I just don't see it - I prefer pairing Havoc with either Riza or Fuery, and Roy belongs to Ed). But I was shelving one day (I LOVE being a library aide), and this title struck me as the perfect title for a RoyHavoc fic. Actually, I can't believe no one's used it before! Anyway, I couldn't come up with a story to go with the title for months (literally), and then a few weeks ago this finally came to me. I like the way its turned out, so far at least. And so you know, this will be a three-shot, no more and no less, so no begging me to update. I'm already in way over my head with my RoyEd fic, The Dance Lesson, so I don't need another long-range story. I hope you like this, though!

**Disclaimer**: I do own FMA, really I do - just not in this dimension.

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**I.**

If the element of fire belongs to Roy Mustang, smoke belongs to _him_. And it is strange, Roy thinks, because he never thought of smoke as something separate; there was fire, and the smoke that came from fire, and the two always went together. He never thought that smoke could be an element in itself.

That was before the day a sullen young lieutenant walked in with his transfer papers, saying he was the newest member of Roy's staff. A cigarette hung lightly on his lips even as he spoke. He didn't know then that he would never see his mouth again without it, but he still knew that there was something about the way he smoked that was different from anything he had seen before. He does it intensely, as though it is not a habit or a desire but a compulsion, as though he would be empty and incomplete without it.

Roy sometimes wonders if he could live without his cigarettes. If it is some sort of deficiency, that he cannot take in oxygen, but must fill his lungs with the smoke in order to breathe. It would not surprise him if he needed cigarettes to live; he has made the smoke so much a part of himself.

It was impossible to deny that smoke was a separate entity, once Roy knew him. The smoke defines him. It can always be seen, a faint but perceptible haze that spirals around his head when he sits and trails after him when he walks. No one ever looks for him; they look for the smoke, because he can always be found there. It is easy, too, to tell where he has been, where he likes to drink his coffee and eat his lunch and stop to talk. Any place he frequents soon acquires the dim scent of smoke; not unpleasant or overpowering, just a soft reminder that he has been there.

He wears the same scent, after so many hours spent surrounded by smoke. It permeates his clothing as surely as if it were woven into the fabric; the warm, acrid smell of his uniforms is so familiar that no one notices anymore. The smoke clings to his fingers, too, and his skin, and his hair as it dissipates slowly, so that he wears it on his body like a perfume.

Roy knows that anyone who kissed him would taste the smoke that he breathes, would find their mouth filled with it, would be flooded with the bitter taste that is such a part of him.

Roy thinks it is right that he has chosen to define himself with smoke; it suits him perfectly. He is like smoke in many ways. He is easy to see; he never tries to conceal his actions, his feelings, his dreams. Everyone who knows him knows every plan he makes; knows every girl has fallen in love with; knows that he is a loyal enough soldier to follow Roy into death.

However, he shares another quality with smoke; anyone who tries to touch it, hold it, capture it, ends up closing a hand on empty air. For all his openness, Roy knows that no one knows him as well as they think. They know what he does, but not why he does it. They know about the girls he chases, but not what he looks for; a lover, a wife, a friend, sex, or something else entirely. They know he is loyal to Roy, but not why he follows him, or what he gets out of it. He keeps his motivations and his heart secret, and anyone who tries to look deeper than his surface might as well try to ensnare the smoke.

Before he realized this, Roy sometimes wondered why smoke did not belong to him too, because he was fire, and smoke and fire are parts of one thing. Now he knows better. Fire is one thing and smoke is another. The fire he is named for he creates out of air and nothingness; it burns no fuel and creates no smoke. Roy never thought about that before he met him. Smoke is not a part of his identity. When people think of smoke they only think of _him_. That is the way it has been, for a long time.

Roy wonders when exactly things began to change.

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**A/N:** If I offered to be your personal slave and perform vile and malicious acts on your behalf, then would you review?


	2. The Look in His Eyes

**A/N: **Yay, chapter 2! The last chapter will probably be up in a few days, depending on how far I get with my many other stories (and yes there are many!), so until then, enjoy this one!

Disclaimer: It's possible that one of my alter egos owns FMA, but if they do, they certainly aren't telling me...at least not in English.

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II.

Roy remembers their first – well, he wouldn't call it a date. Not really. He supposes it was pity, rather than romance, that made him speak that day. Another girl had refused him, walked away with her hand in someone else's, and he sat at his desk all day, vacant and dejected. He did not cry, but he clung to his cigarette as if it were all that was keeping him alive. So Roy walked up and offered to take him to the bar, after work, and help him pick up a girl, just to kill that look of quiet desperation on his face.

Part of him is still surprised that he said yes. Even if it was just a simple, friendly offer, nothing more, Roy didn't really expect to find himself, an hour later, sitting on a barstool with a beer in his hand, trying to decide on a girl for him.

The evening did not go well. Roy gave advice, he gave directions, he even stood up and showed him by example, but it made no difference. At midnight bottles piled up around them, clouds of blue smoke filled the air, and he still hadn't found a woman who wouldn't say no. It was no different that any other night, Roy knows, but there had been so many. He looked broken.

Roy kissed him, without knowing why.

It wasn't something he'd thought about doing before. He just didn't want him to be broken anymore. Maybe he thought it would help. It wasn't a long kiss; he broke it off quickly and walked out of the bar, head down, muttering something about seeing him at work tomorrow.

For a long time after Roy sat there and thought that he had been right. The blunt taste of smoke lingered on his tongue.

He didn't say anything, the next day. Roy stayed in his office and he stayed outside, and neither said a word about what happened. No one else seemed to notice; they didn't talk often anyway. Not talking at all didn't seem so extraordinary. Roy was glad they weren't talking; he didn't know what to say. A very large part of him hoped that they could pretend it never happened, forget about it entirely. A much smaller part of him was disappointed, even hurt, but he did his best to ignore it.

They didn't talk for a week. On Friday, he stretched lazily in his chair, took a drag of his cigarette, and asked Roy if he was up for another night of seducing the ladies. Roy still doesn't understand how he could have said yes, but he did. They didn't go back to the same bar, and Roy didn't ask why.

The second time it still wasn't a date, but it was different from the first. Roy could tell by the way he smoked; lazily, casually, naturally, like it was a long-accustomed part of him, so completely different from the ravenous, needy, desolate way he had smoked before. When he pursued women this time, it was not with the single-minded hunger of loneliness; he treated it more like a game, and he smiled while he did it. He smiled when he was refused, too, because it was just a game, and the outcome didn't matter. Somehow the smile made Roy sad; it reminded him too much of himself, because he plays the game as well.

There was less drinking the second time, and more talking. Roy found that he likes talking to him more than he thought he would. There is a feeling of comfort, understanding, easy companionship that he isn't used to feeling around anyone. He learned a lot about him that night, small things, like that he prefers beer to whiskey, that he loves strawberries, that he likes dogs more than he would admit to Fuery. As he sat there, Roy wondered when he had last had a conversation with someone that wasn't about work. He wondered why it made him so happy to just sit there and talk to him.

The second time Roy didn't kiss him, because he didn't know how. But when they both reached for the tab, he took the opportunity to touch his hand, just for a moment. Roy didn't understand why he smiled when he didn't pull away, but he did.

There was a third time, and a fourth, and soon it was office tradition for the two of them to go out girl hunting together several times a week. And that was not a lie, not really; they did hit on girls, and that he always got turned down, and Roy always turned them down, didn't have to mean anything. But Roy noticed that each time he tried less, seemed to care less, until the effort barely existed for either of them.

Roy isn't sure when they both knew that it was a façade. He doesn't know when they knew that the girls had become an excuse, not a reason, for going out. He can't remember when he knew that they hit on girls only long enough to convince themselves and everyone else that that was why they were there.

On the day he realized that, Roy asked him if he wanted to go out that night, just as he usually did. It was a formality that everyone was used to; no one looked up at his words, except for him. He looked up in surprise, because Roy had left off the words that completed the sentence, the words that reaffirmed the purpose of these evenings.

Roy did not ask if he wanted to pick up girls, or find a date, or meet a young woman. He only asked if he wanted to go out. The difference in meaning in the absence of those words was small, but profound.

He still said yes, and Roy smiled, but no more than he usually did.

Roy thinks of that as their first date. They did not go to a bar that night, but to a restaurant. It was not fancy or expensive, because neither of them could afford it, but it was small, quiet, and pleasant. Roy thinks it was romantic, but that may just have been the circumstances. They talked, and he smoked, and neither one really admitted that it was a date, but they both knew that it was.

At the end of the evening, before they stood to leave, Roy kissed him for the second time.

This time he did not pull back in shock, did not walk away; instead he moved into the kiss like he had longed for it, and his hands reached out for Roy's and clasped them tightly, like he was afraid of sinking. They both kept their eyes open as they kissed, and Roy saw that his eyes were blue, like water.

Roy wondered as he kissed him if he was burning. He was so close that he could smell the smoke on his skin. The flavor of smoke hung heavy on his tongue, and he could feel its warmth filling his lungs as he inhaled it. And it must have been the smoke in the air that made his eyes sting and water, because he couldn't have been crying.

Roy knows that everything began to change that night.

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	3. Smoke Entwined Around Us

**A/N:** Sorry to say, ladies and (although I rather hope not, because the idea of fanboys very slightly scares me) gentlemen, but this is the very last chapter! After this, there will be no more. I would like to add a big humongous thank you to those of you who have been reading - I did not expect to get this many hits or reviews, so I love you all! I hope this chapter lives up to all expectations of greatness (okay, so I'm arrogant. I'm a Leo, what do you expect?)Read! Love! Review!

**Disclaimer**: Not even the mighty Spoons of Time could make me the owner of FMA, much as I might wish it were so.

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III.

For a long time, they tried to keep it a secret. Roy believes that it was partly out of denial; if no one knew, they could pretend that it was nothing, that it meant nothing, even though they both knew it had become something a long time ago.

It was easier not telling. It was simpler. There would be no awkward conversations, no attempts at explanations, no averted glances that way. As much as Roy trusted his team, he wasn't entirely sure he could trust them with this.

Part of it, Roy has to admit, was merely that they both enjoyed having a secret. It was nice to think that they were being mysterious, nice to know something no one else did, nice to smirk at the wild speculation thrown their way. It made what they were doing more of a challenge, and Roy loved a challenge.

So in the office they kept up the façade that nothing had changed. It would have been easy to avoid each other completely, pretend that they hated each other, but that would have exposed them within a day. They did what was much harder: the carefully modulated voices that revealed no unexpected emotions, the eyes that had to meet without looking away or staring too long, the touches that had to be accidental and insignificant.

They made up for it on the evenings that they still pretended were just a chance to pick up girls. They went out, to restaurants or movies or for coffee, or even just to the bar. One night they went dancing, and Roy laughed at him because he danced for hours without putting out his cigarette.

The swirls of smoke were beautiful, though.

At some point, Roy realized that it wasn't a secret anymore. Everyone knew, everyone had known for a long time. He's still not entirely sure what gave them away. Maybe it was that weeks passed without him crying over another broken heart. Maybe it was that for the same weeks, Roy no longer loudly bragged of his many conquests, most of them stolen right out from under his nose. Maybe they realized the day one irritated glance from him did what Riza's threats couldn't, and got Roy to finish his paperwork. Maybe it was the day they were walking to lunch, and he tripped, and Roy caught his hand before he could fall. Somehow, they knew.

Roy suspects it was the smoke.

The smoke gave them away, because the smoke no longer belongs to him. The smoke belongs to both of them now.

The first time Roy woke up with his arms wrapped around him, he noticed that the bed smelled like smoke. The bitter, sweet, familiar scent was like a second blanket entwined around the two of them. It made him feel comfortable, right, safe, just like the man next to him who was now blinking and stretching and driving off all thoughts of smoke.

Somehow the scent of smoke has filled Roy's life. It was subtle at first, so faint he thought he was imagining it, but now he is certain. It is not just his bed any longer. When he opens his drawers, all his clothes smell of it, even the freshly laundered uniform shirts he buttons on every morning.

When he goes down to the kitchen for breakfast, the first thing Roy notices is not the savory odor of frying bacon or the sound of someone singing loudly and off-key. The first thing he observes is that the kitchen is full of smoke; everything slightly blurred and clouded by it. Roy doesn't entirely know how he can tell the difference between smoking for comfort and smoking from elation, but he can.

One night he wasn't there; he was out on assignment, a minor recon mission with Hawkeye. Roy sat alone in his living room, drinking coffee, and couldn't help but acknowledge that his presence lingered in the scent of smoke that now filled every room of the house. There was no place he could go to escape it, no place free of memories and smoke.

After the tears had all left him in a storm of jerky sobs, Roy was willing to admit that he was comforted by the smell of smoke.

Roy thinks they finally knew because of the smoke. Because his clothes, and his hair, and probably his skin bear the taint of smoke now, traces he can't smell on himself but that he knows are there. Riza looked at him oddly one day, when they were working together and she stood close, and Roy knows it was because she could smell it on him.

They never decided to tell everyone, not really. They decided to kiss, one day, in Roy's office. They decided to forget about locking the door. They decided to do it when they knew Riza was about to come back and Hughes was about to come in.

They both decided that actions would speak louder than words, and require less explaining.

Roy can't believe that nothing changed after that, but it's true. No one seemed surprised and no one seemed to care, and Roy was almost disappointed that something he tried so hard to hide would be taken so much in stride by everyone he hid it from.

Smoke was never part of his element; he was wholly fire and nothing else. Roy knew that to be true, but now it isn't so. Smoke is part of what defines him now. When people think of smoke, they think of him, as always, but they also think of Roy, which they never did before, and most especially they think of the two of them, together.

When people want to find Roy now, they do not look for him, but for the blue clouds of smoke, because that is always where he will be found. It has even become a joke in the office; Roy knew it would, the day someone was looking for him by following the hazy trail and instead found him and Roy, lips pressed together, eyes shut, surrounded by rings of smoke.

Roy doesn't see why it's so funny, but everyone laughs when someone opens the clichéd phrase, and the laughter nearly drowns out whoever finishes the line. He doesn't think it's all that funny, but when he looks over at him, their eyes meet and neither one can help smiling, because they both know it's true.

Sometimes, if he doesn't think anyone will notice, Roy mouths the first line across the room

_Where there's smoke_

And he grins and exhales smoky spirals and around his cigarette, he mouths his answer,

_There's fire._

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_Owari_


End file.
